


Verbatim

by TextReciprocation



Series: clothes off my back [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Crossdressing, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mirror Sex, maidgoro and punishment cop akira, oh also i brought in an OC for goro akechi to bully, technically a sequel but it stands alone just fine, this is not porn without plot this porn has several subplots, wanton destruction of pantyhose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextReciprocation/pseuds/TextReciprocation
Summary: It's a black skirt; shorter than knee-length, not quite miniature. Two high-reaching slits creep dangerously close to the waistline. It’s impractical, absurd — more lewd fantasy than apparel.Goro swallows.Maybe... one of the girls... left it here?He scoffs, unable to imagine any ofthemwearing anything likethis.Goro lifts the skirt higher, imagines the size of Akira’s waist...His heart melts down into his pelvis.(Or: Known apparel thief Goro Akechi finds a skirt in his boyfriend's laundry.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: clothes off my back [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204574
Comments: 18
Kudos: 189





	Verbatim

Goro used to toss his empty limbs around an empty bed, clutching the covers with white-knuckled fists and longing for someone to hold. Not anyone — _someone_ , someone who’d crept into his heart like a cat creeps onto a windowsill. One moment lurking beneath him; the next, perched up high, bathed in sunlight and splendor.

Nowadays, Goro sleeps in the arms of that _someone_. Not every night, but often enough that when he wakes up to hollow sheets, he frowns.

“Oh wait, fuck, my _wallet_ -”

Akira rustles through the dark room, cursing. From the sound of it, he’s trying to get ready for work. From the sound of it, he’s _failing_.

Goro sighs, rolls over, and clicks on the lamp.

“Does that help?” Akira jerks upwards, squinting against the onslaught of lamplight. He looks back down — “ _Aha_!” — and hoists his wallet up from the floor.

“Sorry about that. I tried not to wake you up.”

“It's alright, I don't mind.” Goro shifts over to Akira’s side of the bed. The still-warm pillow smells musky. Goro inches away from consciousness, eyes slipping shut.

The bed creaks. Akira’s body hovers over him, imminent and heavy. Goro peels an eye open. “May I help you?”

“Perhaps.” Akira leans in, face stretching into a grin — teeth bared, eyes twinkling. His hair shines and sags, damp from the shower; his breath smells like toothpaste.

Goro gets bitten by the urge to pinch Akira’s cheek. He spares them both the indignity. Chest tight with affection, he rolls onto his back. “Alright. _How_ may I help you?”

Akira grins wider, leans in closer. Goro goes limp, eyes slipping closed on a hunch. Sure enough, his lips twitch and tingle under the attention of a brief, closed-mouth kiss. Akira pulls away, and Goro licks his bottom lip. It tastes like peppermint.

“Sorry,” Akira chuckles, voice unapologetic. “I couldn't help myself. You know, it's _way_ harder to leave for work when you've got sleeping beauty in your bed.”

A familiar heat rises in Goro’s cheeks. He wonders if he’ll _ever_ get used to Akira Kurusu’s particular brand of devotion.

“You’re _ridiculous_.”

“You know you love me.”

With a theatrical eye roll, Goro reaches up, strokes Akira’s cheek. Akira leans into the touch like a petted cat. “I do,” Goro promises, reaching with parted lips to kiss him again. This time, the kiss lingers; they sigh into it.

“I should skip work. You should skip class. I think we have more... _important_ things to do.” Akira presses closer.

“You’re a _tease_.” Goro pushes Akira’s chest, feels it rumble with laughter as it drifts away. “And you’re going to be late.”

“Alright, alright. I'll go. You'll come over after class, though, right?”

“Of course.”

“Cool.” Akira fumbles for his bag, his phone, his keys. He loiters around the door, leans against the frame. A dopey grin slides onto his face. “Hey. I love you, by the way.”

“I love you too. _Go._ ”

Akira lingers long enough to widen his smile — then leaves. Goro groans into the pillow, body still hot from a few chaste kisses, still _trembling_.

His lips buzz as he meanders his way back to sleep.

* * *

A few hours later, the sun prods him awake. He pulls the duvet over his eyes, but it’s too late to chase the daylight away. Beside him, his phone jitters and starts to chime — it’s time to get up.

Goro sighs and rolls out of bed. He plucks his jeans up from the floor — black, stylish jeans. (He bought them to pair with his boyfriend’s myriad graphic tees. As often as he wears Akira's shirts, he should probably spring for a second pair.)

Akira’s laundry sits in an unfolded pile on the couch. Goro walks over, yawning, and pulls at bits of black fabric, looking for something to wear. He enjoys wearing all black, he's discovered — he'd been reluctant, so afraid of his _image_ , still held down by the memory of Masayoshi Shido’s unimpressed sneer.

Akira enjoys wearing all black, too. His laundry looks like a charcoal colored lump of void-goo that went on a brief graze through a more colorful man’s wardrobe. It's hard to sift through, but Goro manages, pulling apart tangled shirt sleeves and tossing aside unwanted garments.

His hand brushes against something odd, something _different._ He pinches it between his fingers. The fabric feels thick, but elastic. Goro lifts it out of the pile, looking for sleeves or pant legs, but it's...

It's a black skirt; shorter than knee-length, not quite miniature. Two high-reaching slits creep dangerously close to the waistline. It’s impractical, absurd — more lewd fantasy than apparel. Goro swallows. _Maybe... one of the girls... left it here?_ He scoffs, unable to imagine any of _them_ wearing anything like _this._ Goro lifts the skirt higher, imagines the size of Akira’s waist...

His heart melts down into his pelvis.

 _Holy fuck_ , he thinks. Warmth spreads across his cheeks. He imagines Akira’s hips swathed in black, wiry thighs peeking out. There's no way to wear _boxers_ with something like this, or even briefs, so he'd have to — _oh, fuck, that's a dangerous line of thought, isn't it?_

Heart rumbling, he throws the skirt back onto the pile and rearranges until it disappears. He grabs a random t-shirt and jumps away from the couch like it’s on fire and crawling with ants.

He paces, slips the t-shirt on, and tries to calm down.

 _Should I say something? No,_ he thinks, _I can't just... I don't... what if he gets embarrassed? What if I wasn't_ supposed _to see that?_

The rest of his routine passes in a blur. After slipping into his shoes, he grabs his suitcase and rushes out the door. He prays for the thoughts to get stuck in the attic, unable to chase him.

* * *

The thoughts chase him. They chase him through the street, the subway station, the campus. They chase him all the way to his usual lecture hall seat, pinning him down to beat him over the head with a skirt-shaped bat.

He pulls out his papers, his books. _I'm not going to think about Akira right now,_ he promises. (It’s nice to pretend.)

He holds on for a few seconds; maybe even a minute. In the end, his perfidious mind shucks the promise off the edge of a tall, horny cliff.

 _I wonder if he has anything else_. Goro gnaws his pen. Akira has always been the more masculine of the two of them — and Goro _loves_ it — but the aesthetic appeal of skirts, stockings, heels, dresses...

 _Clothes aren't_ inherently _masculine or feminine,_ he reminds himself. _Clothes are just clothes._ Some clothes are beautiful, some are frumpy, and some are skin-tight and blacker than black and look like they’d leave _nothing_ to the-

“Hey, mind if I sit here?”

Goro snaps his head up. The interlocutor laughs and raises his arms to placate. “Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. So... do you mind?”

Goro scrounges for a reason to say ‘no.’ Unable to come up with anything, he molds his face into a polite, distant smile. “I don't mind,” he says. “Please, go ahead.” _And please, don’t try to talk to me,_ he thinks.

“Thanks! So...” _Of course._ “Nice shirt. I wouldn't have pegged you for a Star Forneus fan. That's _old_ old school.”

Goro looks down; Goro looks back up. “Star... Forneus. Is that what this is from?”

“Oh, you didn't know?” The guy scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, retro gaming shirts are all the rage. It's kind of annoying. On the bright side, you look good in it.” His eyes rove down — lingering, suggestive.

Goro’s eye twitches.

“Oh! Thank you _so_ much. What a relief — I was worried it might not fit me.” His words drip acid, _putrid_ with insincerity. The girl next to them chokes on a giggle.

“Hey, no worries there. You look great. For a boy, you sure are _pretty_ , huh?” Goro bristles. He contemplates how much trouble he’d get in for snapping this man’s neck — _probably more than its worth_ , he muses, still tempted. “I should take you out sometime. We can go to an arcade. Maybe you could earn yourself the right to wear a shirt like that.”

“Oh no, I'm terribly sorry,” Goro coos. “You misunderstood. You see, I worried that the shirt wouldn’t fit because it isn't _mine_. It's my boyfriend's. I'm sure _he_ knows all about ‘Star Forneus’ — perhaps you should ask him?”

Goro smiles, ever the poster child of polite conversation. Beside him, the girl who’d choked on her giggle sounds anaphylactic.

“Damn, alright, whatever,” the guy mumbles. He makes a show of getting up, chair scraping and rocking against the linoleum. “Prissy little...” he trails off, moves a few seats away, huffs down into his new seat.

“I didn't know you had a _boyfriend_ ,” the girl beside him says. He jerks his head over, reluctant to get roped into another conversation — she rolls her eyes. “ _He’s still listening,_ ” she mouths.

“Oh, yes, my _boyfriend_. He's wonderful. Always _such_ a gentleman, so considerate of other people.” The girl giggles. “And, you know, I probably shouldn't say this, but-“

“Hello, everyone.” The professor walks into the room, cutting off Goro’s impromptu monologue. “Hopefully you all did the reading. Today, we’ll be...”

“Ah, what a shame,” Goro whispers. “Next time.”

Beside him, Mr. Star Forneus _fumes_.

* * *

In the end, the agitating event serves him well — it _distracts_ him, occupies his mind. Thanks to his carefully cultivated persona of prickly politeness, he’s not used to being approached or desired by strangers. Hell, he's barely used to being desired by _Akira_.

 _Speaking of Akira..._ Goro remembers, shudders, and sighs. He's on his way back to Leblanc, now. The butterflies in his stomach tap dance down into his intestines, unwilling to let him rest.

Goro reaches the landing of LeBlanc's attic, knocks at the door, tests the handle — it's unlocked. “Come in!” Goro does, shutting the door behind him. He toes off his shoes, puts down his suitcase, and finally, _finally_ looks over at Akira’s beaming face.

Akira dashes across the room with feline grace. He grins, presses Goro against the door. Goro _whimpers_ — the tap-dancing butterflies stomp their way south.

“H-hello,” Goro whispers. Akira hums, leaning in to mouth against his lover’s neck.

“Hello. I’ve been thinking about you.” Akira slips his arms behind Goro's waist, tugging him close.

“Mmm,” Goro hums, woes forgotten. He wraps his arms around Akira's neck, inhales his cologne. “Which part of me were you thinking about, Kurusu?”

“Your nose, of course.” Akira leans back to tap the aforementioned nose with his index finger. Goro scrunches it on reflex, rolling his eyes. “Wait — is that my ‘Star Forneus’ shirt?” Goro groans.

“Don't remind me. You're the second person to ask me about this shirt today. The first was trying to hit on me.”

“Hey! I'm trying to hit on you, too,” Akira laughs, swaying their bodies together. “So... what happened? Did you say yes?” Goro punishes Akira with a flick to the chest; Akira giggles.

“I did _not._ He asked to take me to an arcade so I could ‘earn the right’ to wear it.”

“Damn, sounds like a real charmer.” Akira presses another kiss against Goro’s neck, lingering. “Looks like I've got competition. What did you say?” His breath rolls into Goro’s ear, hot and wet. Goro shudders.

“I told him the truth, of course.” Goro shifts his hips, plays at being demure. “After he complimented my shirt, I thanked him — I told him I was _so_ worried it wouldn't fit me.”

Akira grins, lips curling and stretching against Goro’s pulse.

“He gave his monologue, asked me out to the arcade.” Akira clutches his hips, pulls him in closer. “I said _no_. I told him he misunderstood. ‘I worried it might not fit me because it's _not mine_. It's my boyfriend's.’”

Akira bites his neck, tongue flicking out. “Damn... I’m a lucky guy.” He slips his hand under the shirt’s hem, fingertips trailing along Goro’s skin. “Do you want me to fuck you in this shirt, sweetheart? Next time you wear it to class, you can tell Mister Arcade _all_ the details.”

Goro softens, knees stuttering. A shared heat pools between their legs. Goro imagines giving in — Akira would carry him to the bed, undress his lower half, spend an _eternity_ working him open. Akira becomes an unrepentant tease when Goro riles him up, and right now, he’s _riled_.

The black skirt flutters into Goro’s mind. He stops. _I should at least ask,_ he thinks. _Or maybe I should wait? Maybe it's not a sex thing, maybe it would offend him._ He remembers the way the slits of the skirt opened all the way up to the hip — enticing, _inappropriate._

Goro makes up his mind.

“Akira, wait.” Goro leans back. Akira, ever the gentleman, steps away.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing is _wrong_. Everything's fine, I just — uh.”

Fear and confusion drip into Akira’s expression. Goro wants to scream, wants to wipe it all away. _Just say it, you_ moron _. Just say it!_

“Please, _please_ don't look at me like that. Fuck, Akira, I'm sorry, this _really_ isn't a bad thing. I'm just...” He steels himself. “I found your skirt.”

Akira Kurusu knows how to _appear_ neutral, even when he isn't. His blushes are light, his smiles sly, his face often blank.

At the word “skirt,” Akira Kurusu’s impenetrable mask flushes crimson.

“ _Oh_. Right.” Akira jolts backwards, eyes snapping down to the floor. He slips his hands into his pockets, shoulders stiffening and lurching upwards. “Uh...”

“It's... there's no need to be _embarrassed_. It's a-” Goro chokes, tries again. “It's a _very_ nice skirt.”

“Which one did you find?”

Which one? _Which one?_

“Which... one?”

“Yeah. Which skirt was it?”

“Um, well.” Goro's voice sounds high-pitched; his dry throat doesn't do him any favors. “It's... black. High-waisted, I believe. There are slits in the sides?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Akira exclaims, “oh, fuck. It was in the laundry, wasn’t it? Shit, I can't believe I _forgot_.”

“Yes, I found it while I was looking for a shirt this morning.”

Goro looks at Akira; Akira looks at Goro. Goro bites his lip. “So, you have... _more_?”

Akira grins, posture unfurling. “Yeah. Wanna see?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Come here.” Akira grabs his arm, leads him to the closet. He opens it, flicks on the light, and steps in to rummage through his leaning tower of belongings.

After a moment, Akira pulls out his third-year briefcase, raises it like a prize. “Tah-dah!”

“You keep them in your old _school bag_?” Akira shrugs.

“It's not like I was using it for anything else.” He clicks the latch, lifts the cover. A few bundles of fabric peep out — a delicate white ruffle, a strip of black lace, the band of something soft and red. Akira dumps it all out on the bed.

Goro takes a moment to inspect the pool of items. There are a few more skirts, a black clip-on tie, a make-up bag, some kind of feminine uniform shirt. Smaller items are strewn throughout — white tights, fishnets, a cardboard sheet full of costume earrings, a belt, a little black bag.

“After we started dating, I went looking for some more...” Akira coughs. “ _Adult_ items online.” Goro flushes, bites his lip. “I found this,” he says, picking up the uniform shirt. It's a white button down with a cropped, short sleeve blazer. “It's... well, it _used_ to be a sexy cop outfit. The badge looked stupid, so I ripped it off.”

Goro snorts. “A _cop_ , Akira? Really? You _hate_ cops.”

“Yeah, but I liked the outfit. Can you blame me?” Akira waggles the shirt around. _Fair point_ , Goro thinks.

He looks at the uniform, imagines it with the tie, with the _skirt_. Akira’s lean, muscular body must look... _fuck_. Goro swallows, tries not to get ahead of himself.

“And... everything else?”

“I asked Ann to help me find a pair of high heels. She put two and two together and started flinging miniskirts at me.”

 _That sounds like Ann,_ Goro thinks — and then, _wait..._

“High heels?”

“Yeah, I've got more stuff in a box.” Akira sets the shirt down, moves in close, grabs Goro’s waist. Goro’s breath gets trapped, unable to enter or exit. “Listen... how about this. Go take a shower. In the meantime, I'll get _dressed_.” Akira smirks. “I have something you could wear, too. If you're interested?”

Goro looks down at the pile of lace and nylon, contemplative. He's entertained the idea of skirts, dresses, and heels. Ann offered to dress him up more than once, but he'd never felt comfortable pushing the boundary. Until he started stealing Akira’s clothes, he spent most of his days drowning in argyle sweater vests and stiff cotton.

He looks at the pile; the pile looks back.

“I would like that a lot,” he whispers. “What did you have in mind?”

“Go take a shower.” Akira’s fingers trail up and down his hips, teasing. “I'll get everything ready.”

“Okay.” Goro leans in, not wanting to leave. They sway, pulled by each other’s gravity, lips drawn together into a kiss. Akira moves away, grinning.

Akira leads him over into the washroom, kissing him one last time. “Have a nice shower, honey. Think of me.” He winks. Goro rolls his eyes, shutting the washroom door in Akira’s face. Behind it, Akira laughs.

* * *

Goro Akechi loiters around the washroom — freshly showered, hair swept back into a messy ponytail. Nothing to do but walk back into the at _tic._ Right, he thi _nks, I can do this._

He doesn't bother getting dressed. He steps out with the towel clutched around his waist, skin flushed and warm.

Akira stands in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his tie. When the washroom door opens, he swings around, smiling.

The eyes draw Goro in first — smudged liner, eyeshadow, maybe a bit of mascara. He has red lips, pink cheeks, and black gloves. A studded belt clenches his waist. That _fucking skirt_ hugs his hips, legs peeking out of the mile-high slits. Fishnet stockings warp and stretch over the creamy skin of his thighs; his calves reach down into a pair of glossy black kitten heels.

Akira smirks and lifts his arm; silver handcuffs dangle from the pad of his index finger.

Goro swallows a whimper. In retaliation, the whimper strangles his lungs.

“They're corny, but I kept them. The lock _barely_ works. They're more for show than anything.” Akira steps over, slow and methodical in his pointy shoes. He _towers_ over Goro. “So? What do you think?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Goro whispers. “It looks amazing, of course. _You_ look amazing.” Goro glances down at his own ratty towel. “...I'm beginning to feel a bit underdressed.”

Akira’s crimson smirk widens. “We can fix that. Come here.” Akira grabs him, leads him over to the bed. “I know it's... kinda silly,” he laughs. “But I think it'll look good on you.”

 _Oh my god,_ Goro thinks. A blush attacks his skin, hot and prickly.

It's a maid outfit. An honest-to-god, black-and-white, petticoat-and-frills maid outfit. There are stockings, Mary-Jane heels — even a classic headband, laden with bows and ribbons.

“Are you _sure_?” Goro stares at the outfit. It's difficult to imagine _himself_ in it.

“You don't have to if you don't want to, but I thought it would be cute. Ann gave it to me — it’s from a photo shoot. I haven't tried it on. I was... sort of saving it for you.”

Goro’s blush deepens, warming him to the bone. _Well_ , he thinks, _it’s hard to say no to_ that.

“Okay, I'll try it.” He reaches for the pile — Akira stops him.

“No. Sit down.” Akira picks up the package of white pantyhose, ripping it open. “I'll help you.”

Goro complies. Akira sinks down to to the floor, gazing up through long black lashes — _oh, fuck, what a sight_ — and scrunches the hose between his fingers.

“Take off the towel,” he says. Goro unwraps it, tugs it loose, and tosses it to the laundry basket. His cock perks up against the attic’s cool air.

Akira smirks. “Not yet,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss the half-hard shaft. Goro’s breath hitches — Akira's lips leave a _mark_ , bright red, glistening with spit. “Stick out your legs for me?”

Goro does. Akira wraps the stockings around one foot, and then the other. He smooths the opaque fabric over Goro's calves, pulling it taut. It clings to his skin, rubbing against the soft, downy hair of his legs. Akira keeps going, up over his knees, up onto his thighs.

“Stand up for me.” Goro obeys. Akira smiles, pulling the pantyhose up over his ass, over his _cock_ , tugging and stretching until the fabric rests comfortably around his hips. “There. How does that feel?”

Goro looks down, rubs his thighs together. They feel... _good_. They’re tight, warm, and plush. His muscular legs look softer around the edges.

“They feel alright,” he says, readjusting his growing bulge. They didn’t make these with _that_ in mind, although they’re stretchy enough that it's not a problem yet. “What’s next?”

“Petticoat!” Akira leaps up. He grabs a bundle of white fabric and walks Goro over to the full-length mirror, planting him there. “Raise your arms for me.”

Goro lifts his arms; Akira slips the fluffy skirt over them, pulling it down to rest on his waist. “What's the point of the mirror? You're doing all the work.”

“Oh,” Akira chuckles, fingers grasping Goro’s waist, “I just wanted you to see how pretty you look.”

Goro’s heart stutters. Right now, he looks like a confused, half-dressed ballerina. But there's something about his legs wrapped in hosiery — something that makes him turn to appreciate the curve of his own thigh.

Akira catches him and grins. “See? I told you.” Goro blushes, adjusting the petticoat to his comfort. “Time for the fun part.”

 _The fun part — the dress_. Akira brings it over. It's all one piece, which comforts him — nothing too complicated. He allows Akira to slip it down over his torso, shoving his arms through the puffy sleeves.

It... well, it looks _silly_ , too loose, and not quite resting like Goro thinks it's supposed to. The untied apron sash dangles to each side. Underneath the skirt, the trapped petticoat bundles up into an unflattering silhouette.

Akira grabs the ties, pulling them together at Goro’s waist. His fingers reach up to unfurl the warped petticoat. He tugs the fabric of the skirt into place, a loose approximation of the final look, and — _oh_.

Something about the puff of the petticoat makes his legs look sky high and graceful. The ruffles of the apron give the illusion that he _might_ be hiding a pair of breasts. Goro enjoys the androgyny, the uncertainty.

“You look gorgeous.” Akira kisses his neck, leaving a trace of lipstick. “I can't wait to see the rest of it.”

Akira starts to tie a loose bow in the apron. Goro stops him.

“Tie it a bit tighter?” Akira obliges, pulling. The broad band of the sash acts almost like a corset, cinching his waist. It looks good, it _feels_ good, digging against his skin.

“Tighter,” he asks.

Akira pauses.

This time, he grabs both ends of the sash and _yanks_ , knot digging into the flesh of Goro’s spine. Goro keens, body swaying.

“Honey,” Akira whispers. “I know you love to get tied up, but I want you to be able to _breathe_.”

“I can still breathe!”

“Alright then — take a deep breath.” Goro does; the knot loosens a fraction, creaking. Satisfied, Akira finishes the bow.

“Spoilsport,” Goro mutters, hip-checking his boyfriend with a swish of his skirt. Akira laughs.

“Hey! There are always the handcuffs.”

Goro blushes, staring at the mirror. The two of them make one hell of a picture. Akira drips with a dangerous sort of sex appeal; Goro looks coy, soft, _sweet_.

“It looks nice,” Goro admits, teasing the hem of his skirt with curious fingers. He experiments with his posture, shifting closer to Akira’s body. Goro always leaned in the vague direction of femininity — now, he embraces it, leans _further_ , sinking against his lover like a bodice-ripper heroine. “I feel like I should put on a show. Should I _service_ you? Call you master?”

Akira chuckles, resting his hands against the newly pronounced dip of Goro’s waist. “For now, let's finish getting you dressed.” Goro hums, walks over to the bed. He grabs the heels, lifts them up to scrutinize.

“I've never worn heels before.”

“You’ll be fine.” Akira walks over, grinning. “See? I can do it.” Akira takes the shoes, gesturing for Goro to sit.

Goro perches on the edge of the bed; Akira sinks back down to the floor. Akira slips one heel on, then the other, buckling the straps. The intimacy of the gesture surprises Goro.

“Looks like the slipper fits, princess,” Akira jokes, pressing a kiss to the inside of Goro’s ankle.

“They’re hardly made of _glass_.” Goro lifts one leg to rest on Akira’s shoulder, calf rubbing against his neck. Akira's eyes follow the long line of Goro’s leg up into the fluff of his petticoat, expression _ravenous_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Akira whispers, reaching to caress Goro’s thigh. “There are still the accessories, you know. Be patient.”

Goro crooks his knee, dragging Akira in by the shoulder. “I don't care about the _accessories_ , Kurusu.”

“I want to complete the image.” Akira reaches up to grab the last touches — a headband and a long, satin ribbon. He stands up; Goro slips backwards with a _thump_ , leg slipping off of Akira’s shoulder. “Do you know why?”

“No.”

Akira cups a hand underneath Goro’s waist, drawing him upwards. He places the headband with care — adjusting, re-adjusting, tucking and arranging fly-away hairs. Steady hands encircle Goro’s neck, draping the ribbon like an untied scarf.

“I want you to know what you look like.” Akira grabs both ends of the ribbon, dragging Goro in. The thin strip digs a trench into the sensitive skin of his nape; Akira’s breath puffs hot against his cheek. “All dressed up, head to toe. I need you to see yourself before I _ruin_ you.”

Goro whimpers, cock straining against his pantyhose. “ _Akira_.”

Akira ties the ribbon into a loose bow and steps back. He holds out a hand. “Stand up.” Goro accepts, feet struggling to find purchase. Akira steadies him, leads him back over to the full-length mirror.

“Look at you.” Akira tugs Goro in front of him, kissing the back of his neck. “You're gorgeous.”

Goro stares at the reflection. Legs elongated by heels, silhouettes altered by cloth. They look _different_ , but it's still them, toying with their newest affectations. Akira’s posture betrays more of his feline grace than usual, while Goro’s accentuates his softer, more obscure inclinations.

It's a charade, but it’s an _honest_ charade. They change themselves to suit the clothes; the clothes change to suit them, no longer sprawled without a wearer.

“I bet your classroom admirer would _love_ to see this,” Akira whispers, lips painting Goro’s neck red. “But he doesn't get to. It's just for us.”

“Just for us.” Goro’s eyes flutter. He reaches back, using the mirror to guide his hand to Akira’s face. Akira smiles into the touch, cheek powdery and warm.

“Goro... do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Sit on the edge of the bed.” Reluctantly, Goro tears himself away. He moves slowly — _heel to toe_ , he thinks, _heel to toe._ When he sits, he tucks his ankles together, shoes clacking.

Akira moves the mirror to face the bed.

Goro's throat traps an anguished breath, heartbeat stuttering. Akira turns around and prowls towards him.

“I’m going to take you apart.” Akira places a gloved finger under Goro’s chin, crooking it upwards. Dark eyes shine out from underneath curled lashes. “I'd like for you to watch.”

Goro Akechi avoids mirrors and photographs; the strain of teen stardom will do that to a person. Goro forsook his father and left that life behind, but it left scars on his fragile adolescent psyche that never faded.

Akira knows this; he’s giving Goro an out.

Goro doesn't want to take it.

“I'll watch.”

Akira nods, smiles, and bends to suck the flesh near Goro’s collarbone. Goro watches it happen — a shock of black hair descending onto his neck, a gloved arm moving to cradle his thigh. Akira slips to his knees, long legs swathed in fishnet, skirt hugging the curve of his ass.

“Fuck,” Goro whimpers, “I _want_ to watch. Please, _Akira_.”

Akira melts down onto the floor, slipping his hand in between Goro’s ankles, pushing them apart. The hand wanders upwards, black gloves snagging against thin white fabric. Fingers slip in between Goro’s thighs, teasing them apart — a silent, racy supplication.

Goro complies, spreading his legs. Between them, his cock throbs, trapped by an unforgiving swathe of nylon. He digs his heels into the carpet.

“I love seeing you in my clothes.” Akira slips between his thighs, kisses them. His rouged lips stain Goro’s white legs pink. “I always do, you know that. But _this_... this is almost unbearable.”

Akira’s lips trail upward, marking their territory.

“Don't get me wrong, I love your _naked_ body, too.” Akira tugs the pantyhose between his teeth, pulling until the fabric snaps back into place — spit-slick, damp, rosy. “But this is a different type of sexy. You look... fuck, I don't know. Coy? _Demure_?”

“Something like that,” Goro hisses. “You look — fuck, you look _dangerous._ You look like you could eat me alive.”

“Maybe I _will_.” Akira bites Goro’s thigh; his tongue swirls the patch of nylon, soaking it. Goro whines. In the mirror, he watches his cheeks go ruddy.

A glove slips under the skirt, lifting it. Goro looks down at his own trapped cock. Droplets of pre-cum freckle the hose, a smattering of dark stains. Akira reaches forwards, stroking the cock with a finger.

“Gorgeous,” he says, moving in closer. Goro wraps his legs around Akira’s head, crossing his ankles, heels dragging against his boyfriend's spine.

Akira smiles, mouth inching towards the bulge in the hose. Finally, he presses his lips against the base of Goro’s cock and _sucks_.

“ _Akira_ ,” Goro moans, bucking his hips. Akira presses him into the edge of the mattress, holding him still. His mouth travels up the partly concealed shaft, teasing it, soaking it. Goro sinks his fingers into Akira’s hair, admiring the wanton picture in the mirror.

“These pantyhose are ruined,” Akira laughs, admiring his handiwork — lipstick stains, patches of saliva, a few rips and runs.

He tugs off one glove, and then the other, tossing them over his shoulder.

“They might not be _so_ bad once we wash them.” Goro rubs his thigh, appraising the state of the nylon.

“Maybe.” Akira reaches up to play with the seam between Goro's legs, bare fingers teasing. “Then again, they’re cheap. I can order new ones. _Better_ ones, even.”

Akira’s eyes glint with dangerous intent, fingers pinching and prodding. Goro’s breath hitches.

“Oh my god, are you going to-”

Goro doesn't get to finish his sentence. Akira grabs both sides of the seam and _rips_ , threads popping and unraveling. He rips down until he can see Goro’s hole; he looks back up with a smirk.

“Oh, _fuck_.” Goro whimpers, leaning back, readjusting to give better access. “Akira, _please_.”

Akira's tongue flicks against his ass once, twice. Goro bites his lip. Finally, Akira wraps his mouth around the hole, lavishing it in attention. His tongue pulses and flutters, wet and hot and _vigilant_.

Goro moans, thighs clenching. The picture in the mirror looks _filthy_ — Goro flushed and drooling, skirt lifted, Akira’s face buried in his ass. Two long legs drape over Akira’s shoulders, littered with lipstick stains.

“Touch my cock,” Goro begs. “Please, _please_ touch me.”

Akira pulls away, chuckling. “I love it when you beg.”

“ _Akira_.”

“I don't want you to come yet.” Akira presses the pad of his finger against Goro’s hole, teasing it with a gentle push. “Don't be so hasty, sweetheart. We have all night.”

Goro shudders. “If this carries on all night, I'm going to _die_.”

“Drama queen.” Akira’s mouth returns, slower and gentler. His lipstick is gone now — smeared across his face, smeared around Goro’s asshole, smeared onto Goro’s neck and pantyhose. Goro stares at his reflection; between the lipstick and his own flushed skin, he looks positively _rosy_.

“If you won’t touch me, at least get _inside_ me.” Akira glances up, tongue pushing past Goro’s rim. He lingers there — and slips back out.

“Akira Kurusu, I'm going to _murder you_.”

Akira pulls away, breath ghosting against Goro's wet, sensitive skin. “That's a crime, sweetheart.” He nips his teeth against Goro’s inner thigh. “Maybe I need those handcuffs, after all.”

Goro whimpers.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn't you?” Akira chuckles. He gets up, grabs the handcuffs from the bedside table. Goro stares at them, the shiny fake plastic. They click together in Akira’s hands.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

“Yes, sir,” Goro purrs — half joking, half brutally serious. As he gets into position, his heels catch and snag around the covers; his ruined pantyhose rip further. He faces towards the mirror. “Is this alright?”

“Perfect.” Akira walks forward, grinning down at him. He gets on the bed behind Goro, stroking his back. His fingers catch and stutter on the apron sash. “Just one thing — I need your arms.”

Goro collapses, face pressing against the sheets, and moves his arms behind his back. His spine sinks into a catlike curve.

The handcuffs cinch tightly around his wrists, flimsy but _firm._ He struggles a bit, testing them. They hold fast, though he thinks he might break them if he struggles hard enough. Akira slips off the bed, grinning.

“You look gorgeous. I can't wait to fuck you,” Akira says, moving between Goro and the mirror. He cards his fingers through Goro's hair — the contact feels warm, tender. “Unfortunately, I'll need to take my skirt off.”

“T-that's a shame.” It's hard to speak, with his lips pressed against the duvet.

“The thing is...” Akira chuckles, playing with the zipper on his hip. “Well. I can't exactly wear boxers with something like this, can I?” He drags the zipper down, teeth clicking and hissing against each other. In the quiet room, the sound feels raucous.

“Oh? In that case, what _do_ you wear?”

Akira slips the skirt down his hips. The fishnets open at the crotch, framing a pair of red panties, made of thin, weblike lace. They bulge to accommodate Akira’s hard cock — designed with _this_ in mind, unlike Goro’s constricting pantyhose.

Goro drools into the duvet, hips stuttering against air.

“I wear _these_.” Akira rubs the lace, warping the pattern. He slips them down, exposing his erection — no need to remove either garment. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“ _Pretty cool_ , he says.”

“What? Don't you like it?” Akira moves closer, stroking himself. A bead of pre-cum gathers at the tip of his cock; Goro aches to lick it off.

Goro rolls over onto his back, trapping his handcuffed arms. He pushes towards the edge of the mattress with his heels, sliding until his head lolls off the side. The world goes upside down. Blood trickles into his scalp, his cheeks; he feels the headband shift askew.

He gazes up at Akira and opens his mouth. To punctuate the invitation, he slides his tongue out over his bottom lip.

“You're going to be the death of me.” Akira steps forward with hungry eyes.

Goro widens his mouth, quirking an eyebrow.

Akira presses the head of his cock against Goro’s tongue, an explosion of salt and tang. Goro lavishes it with firm licks, eyes slipping shut.

“Fuck,” Akira hisses. “Your _mouth._ ” Goro wraps his lips around the head of Akira’s cock and sucks, swirling his tongue.

Akira reaches forward to rub Goro’s thighs. Goro spreads his legs, thrusting the air. Akira huffs out a laugh, tugging Goro’s cock out of the ruined pantyhose.

“There you go, sweetheart.” Akira thumbs at the slit of Goro’s cock. “I’m touching you. Do you like that?”

Goro pulls his mouth away from Akira’s cock.

“I'd like it more if you were fucking me.”

“Always so _bossy_.” Akira toys with the ribbons on his boyfriend’s headband, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I love how bossy you are.”

Goro rolls back over, making a wanton display of his spread legs. When he moves, his rumpled skirt ripples and sways. When he waggles his hips, it feels shameless.

“Oh, do you? In that case, why am I still empty?”

“Because I also love teasing you. Duh.” Akira grabs lube and a condom from the bedside table, tossing them onto the sheets, climbing onto the bed behind his lover. “Fuck, _look_ at you.”

Goro gazes up into the mirror. With Akira behind him like this, it almost looks like he's _already_ getting fucked. He swallows; his mouth still tastes like Akira’s cock, like usk and salt and _sex_.

“You know, you’ve always been sexy.” Akira strokes his arms with the words, playing with the chain on the handcuffs. “It never mattered what you were wearing. But ever since we started dating, and you started wearing _my clothes_ all the time — I can't keep my hands off of you. You’re _mine_.”

“Good. I _want_ your hands on me.”

Akira grabs his cinched waist, lifting him up off the duvet. Goro lets his head fall back against Akira’s shoulder. His body feels light and limber, like a doll waiting to be posed. Akira holds him upright, bound arms pressed between them.

“I know you do.” Akira wraps his left arm around Goro, keeps it there. With the other, he grabs the small bottle of lube, uncaps it, and pours some into his fingers. “And I know what else you want.”

Goro shudders. Akira brings his hand up to Goro's ass, smearing lube around his entrance. When he finally presses inside, Goro sighs. “ _Yes_.”

Akira fucks him with one finger, motion concealed by the skirt. Something about the concealment makes it sexier — it's so _obvious_ what’s going on, the way Akira’s arm moves back and forth, the way Goro pants and keens, arms bound against the small of his back. And yet, the action itself remains hidden. A semblance of propriety; it suits the costume.

After a long moment, Akira adds another finger. It's hard for Goro to stay upright, knees sinking apart of their own volition. Akira's arm holds him steady.

“Fuck,” Goro whimpers. Akira bites the back of his neck, fingers him harder, faster. Goro whines. “I want your cock. _Please_.”

“You'll get it soon,” Akira chuckles, adding another finger. “Don't worry, I won’t be able to help myself for much longer. Can you blame me?” Akira tightens his arm, head gesturing towards the mirror.

The image — it’s hard to believe it’s _them_. Goro’s cock peeks out from underneath the rumpled and disheveled dress. The pantyhose are barely holding on. Lipstick stains smatter it all, little patches of pink and red.

Goro goes slack in Akira’s arms.

“Alright.” Akira guides him back downwards until, once again, his face presses into the duvet. “Are you ready?”

“ _Yes_.” Akira chuckles, grabbing a condom. Goro hears him open it, imagines him sliding it on. Finally, he feels the blunt press against his entrance.

Akira presses in — slow, steady. Goro sighs against the intrusion. Akira reaches forward to hold his waist.

“So beautiful,” Akira whispers. He pulls out, pushes back in. A steady pace.

Goro moans. Akira fucks him. Faster, and faster, until he's slamming in and out, panting and flushed and hunched over Goro’s body.

In the mirror, Goro watches it all.

“ _Akira_ ,” Goro moans.

They lose themselves to the rhythm. Goro’s skirt sashays back and forth, fluttering against his thighs; the handcuffs punish his wrists. Akira reaches down to fondle Goro through the tattered remains of his pantyhose.

“If you do that,” Goro whimpers, “I'm going to come.”

“Yes. Come for me, _please_.”

Goro’s orgasm creeps up on him and then punches him in the gut; Akira follows suit moments afterward, letting go with a grunt.

In the mirror, Goro watches his lover collapse on top of him, spent and flushed. He rides the last wave of his orgasm, feeling blissfully warm

* * *

“You know, I still plan to fuck you in that Star Forneus shirt.”

Goro snorts. They're clean now — showered, undressed, and tucked together in bed.

“Shut _up_.”

“Never.” Akira kisses his neck, holding him closer. Goro sighs, relaxes into it. “You're _mine_.”

Goro shudders.

“I don't know. Mr. Arcade _was_ quite fetching. I may have to run away with him.”

Akira bites Goro’s shoulder. It’s playful and ticklish, both of them too tired and well-fucked to feel anything beyond that.

“I'll fight him for you. How buff could he be? He's just some _nerd_.”

“ _You’re_ just some nerd. Go to sleep, Akira.”

Akira hums, holding his lover tight.

* * *

The next time Goro has a class with Mr. Star Forneus, he’s wearing a pair of Akira’s costume earrings.

He's been... _experimenting_. Black bracelets, stud earrings, long necklaces with cheap pendants. He bought _another_ pair of jeans, skinnier than the last, more feminine.

For once in his life, he looks like a young person — an effeminate, _edgy_ young person. His father would drop dead. (Maybe he should mail a few photographs to the bastard’s prison cell.)

“Nice earrings.” Goro sighs internally, looks up.

“Hello again. Thank you for the compliment, I've never worn these before.”

“You _can_ tell they're fake, though. You should get real ones. They'd look great on you.”

“If I want a real piercing, I will _get one_ ,” Goro snaps, politeness slipping out of his grasp. He rubs his temples. “Ah. Pardon me.”

The guy laughs. “Damn, _feisty_. I knew it. Anyway, what inspired you to wear _fake_ earrings? Don't tell me — did your boyfriend give you those, too?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Mr. Star Forneus jumps. Goro smirks.

“Hello, Akira, _sweetheart_ ,” he greets, tone saccharine. He watches Akira force down a laugh.

“Good morning, honeybee.” He leans down to kiss Goro’s cheek, setting a folder on the desk. “Here it is, ready to go. Sorry again for ruining all that hard work.”

(In a spectacular show of clumsiness, Akira had spilled coffee all over Goro’s completed assignment. The fleck of eyeliner on Goro’s cheek may have flustered him — or perhaps it was the love bite peeking out of his collar. Either way, he’d insisted on printing the replacement himself.)

“That's alright. I was just talking to my _friend_ here about the earrings you gave me. He said he liked them. Isn't that sweet? I've never worn them before, after all.”

“Oh, cool! Yeah, I _knew_ they'd look cute on you.” Akira smiles, placing a hand to his chest. “Of course... _everything_ looks cute on you, my darling.”

The all-but-winking look in Akira’s eyes says something like, ‘ _especially what you wore last night’._ Goro answers by rolling his eyes — ‘ _not now, Kurusu’._

“Don't you have somewhere to be, _dear_?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going.” Akira turns to leave; Akira stops, turns back. “Hey, we’re still on for tonight, right? At the arcade?” He winks — they have no such plans.

“Oh! I almost forgot. Yes, of course.” Goro smiles. “With you? Any time.”

Mr. Star Forneus deflates. Akira beams. Beside them all, a young lady — who’d thus far done an admirable job of restraining herself — collapses onto the desk to hide her laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading my happy little smut piece!! scream at me on twitter @reciprotext


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